


We Can Make The World Stop

by Catchclaw



Series: We Can Make The World Stop [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Makeup Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-02
Updated: 2012-03-02
Packaged: 2017-11-01 00:32:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/350024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel discovers that some things are better left unsaid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Can Make The World Stop

**Author's Note:**

> The last story in this series.

Some of you have asked if I regret not having what you have called a "plan." That is, a specific set of goals, objectives, tactics that I might have used to move him towards his destiny, towards the fulfillment of his responsibility to our Father's own design.

This is a foolish question.

First, it is apparent, surely, that my perspective on the notion of destiny has changed, has shifted in order to reflect my own experiences, my own interpretations of the--unique situation that he faced. That we faced. Thus, any such plan from which I might have originally operated would have rapidly become obsolete.

Second--and this is the more important point:

Planning is overrated.

Despite all of our gifts, all of our abilities, there are limits to any plan, no matter how carefully considered.

If I have learned one lesson from my time on Earth of late, it is this:

Improvisation is a skill to which we should aspire.

It is one at which humans excel, this ability to respond in the moment. To read a situation as it unfolds and to shape their reactions accordingly, so as to solicit the most felicitous response.

This is not quite the same, I think, as living wholly "in the moment," as making decisions based solely upon instinct. Rather, while I think there is value in entering into a situation, a problem, a battle with a plan, one must also be willing to recognize when that plan breaks down. When what you had anticipated unfolds in an--unexpected manner.

There are benefits to be gained from such an approach. Especially now, as we reach the boundaries of His Plan and prepare to find a way beyond.

An end is coming.

And, if my own experience is any guide, there may be only so much that we can do to prepare.

**

When I go to him, at last, he is alone. As I had planned.

The house rattles and sighs in the wind, the moon hanging heavy overhead.

He is in the bedroom under the eaves, the one with the leaky window and the closet door that does not close.

When he turns, all at once, I am there. At his shoulder.

His face, when he sees me, lights up and falls and closes in an instant.

"Cas," he says, finally, and it is not the--joyful reunion that I had expected. That I might have wished for.

I thought it would be enough to see him, to have him see me, for it all to come flooding back. That which was good between us.

But I feel it, too.

A sadness stretches between us. One that I did not expect.

"Dean," I say, and suddenly what seemed so certain--that he would say yes to me, and I to him--falls apart in front of my eyes. In his face.

We stare at each other.

He sighs, catches the back of his neck in his hand. "Why are you here?" he asks.

"I--" I start, and our eyes meet and everything I wanted to say, every word of love and forgiveness and need and acceptance vanishes.

I--do not know what to say.

And he knows it.

"Damn it, Cas!" he growls. "You don't speak to me for almost two months, and then you frickin' waltz in here out of nowhere just to stare at me for awhile?! What the hell, man? Just say what you have to say and get out."

He turns away from me.

And I--

I did not realize that I had hurt him. Not like this.

I do not--

I do not know what I am supposed to do, now.

My eyes rest on his back. The lines of his shoulders beneath his shirt. The curve of his neck in the moonlight.

My words are gone. But my body remembers.

I go to him, grab him, turn him, kiss him. The words I had designed, the words I meant to say, they find their way into his mouth and they sound better, feel better, make more sense against his teeth, between his lips than they ever could have to his ears.

I shove my hands into his hair, twist his head in my hands. He opens for me, gasping, reeling, and I drive his body back, away from the bed and into the wall, biting his lips, sucking on his tongue. He is panting, his body molded to my hands, and I am tearing, taking, begging, shaking as I pull his shirt over his head, count down his ribs with my tongue. I drive my name from his mouth with my fingers, my lips, my breath and he sings for me, high and dark and low, his skin seared by my touch.

He moves, tries to grab me, tries to get back his own but I resist, duck my head down and catch his shoulder in my teeth and bite him, hard, mark his flesh as mine, again. His body ripples like a wave, his voice his pleasure smashing into my ears, and oh, he pulls me under, tugs me beneath the arch of his back, the curve of his arms, and his mouth crashes into mine, moving and desperate and sweet.

My hands dive for his skin and I rip my fingers down his sides, dig my nails in, hard, and the sound he makes is so dark and wide that it breaks our mouths apart and for a moment I think he might shatter, that I might feel shards of glass under my hands, and now that is what I want, want to feel him fall apart, want to smash him into bits with my body and put him back together with my mouth.

He grabs my head and kisses me, sloppy and shaking, opening himself for me.

And I--

I take back what is mine.

His lips. His tongue. His teeth. His throat.

I curl my hands into his hips and lock our bodies together. I feel him hard and fast in his jeans and I make sure he feels me back. That he knows how much I want him. How willing I am to take from him. To make him take from me.

No.

That he knows how much I want to fuck him. And how hard he will beg me to do so.

I grin against his mouth, and I am reckless and ready for him, now.

I tip my head back, use my hips to drive him back against the wall, and the look he gives me--

I am the one who shatters.

I release him, back away, pull everything off of my body, every piece of anything that might keep me from him. Watch him do the same, denim in a pool at his feet. I can hear myself snarling at him, though I cannot hear the words for his eyes are roaring in my ears, the green and gold drowning out my voice.

He comes to me, falls next to me on the bed, the long lines of his flesh burning as I bury him under my skin, dig him out with my mouth.

I tie his body his voice into knots that only I can undo, bind him to me with all that I have and he--

He moans, shivers, arches: whatever I want, whatever I wish, he gives me; whatever I do, whatever I say, he asks for.

I grab his cock, push my head down to meet my hand, and he is so ready that his body flows up into my fist, swaying like a wave driven forward by the wind and he screams my name before my tongue can stroke his head and I know enough to shove my mouth down, catch him full and fast just as he comes, a long low roar in my ears, his fingernails in my hair.

I take everything he gives me until his body quiets under my hands. Until his breathing falls back from ragged, slides down into his chest.

I sit up, let him see me, all of me, let my eyes swallow his.

We are still, for a moment.

"Cas," he whispers, reaching for me. "Cas."

I duck out of his hands and stretch up, let my face hang over his. My mouth slide over his own.

"Dean," I say, letting my tongue touch his lips. "I am yours."

I can feel his lips turn up, feel his hands press into my back.

"Yes," he says, he breathes. "Damn straight."

I smile. Kiss him.

"But," I continue, after a moment, "that means that you are mine." And here I let myself drop onto his body, let him feel the curve of my cock biting into his flesh. "Mine," I repeat, my breath catching as my hips start to move. "Mine, Dean. Mine."

He moans, his throat humming against my lips. His hands find my hips and he tugs me down, moving with me, working me into a rhythm as his name tangles in my mouth.

"Dean. Dean. Dean," I say, I pant, I cry. And then I slide down until my cock is caught between his legs and I shove myself against him. Want to be inside him, but. Don't want to hurt him.

"Yes," he says, his voice tight and slow, shifting, letting me dig deeper. Get closer. "Yeah, Cas. Fuck."

And I--

I am at a loss. My body my vessel knows what to do, but I--

He knows. He always knows.

He sits up a little, nudges me away. Reaches over, tugs open, pulls out. Leans down and pushes what I need into my hands. Falls back. Watches, his breath hitching, a steady flush rising over his chest as I slick my fingers, slide them inside his body. Slow, trying to go slow, but the way he arches up, the way he says my name as I stretch him open is too much too much to bear and I move faster, push harder, until thinking stops.

The world stops.

And it does not start again until I am buried in him, until I am fucking him and watching his face unfold beneath me. His eyes flickering, his cheeks red and full, his mouth moving, grinning, begging, as I pull out, push in, pull out, push in and then I cannot stop, cannot see him, can only hear him fall apart a moment before he comes between us and the heat the sweet of him against my skin kicks me over the edge.

This time, I brand his body from the inside out.

Later.

Later, I wake up, his face pressed into my throat, and I fear that I am dreaming.

But angels do not dream.

"Dean," I hear myself say into his hair. "Angels do not dream."

"Hmm?" he rumbles, tipping his head back. His eyes open, slowly, and I see myself inside him. Smiling.

"I am not dreaming," I tell him.

"Huh," he says, blinking. "Thanks for sharing that."

I open my mouth to speak but a yawn falls out instead and he laughs. Catches me in his arms and pulls us together until there is no space left in between.

My eyes flicker and I feel myself relax, my body dropping into his.

"Love you, Cas," he sighs into my skin.

"I love you," my mouth says, my hands say, my soul answers.

The end is coming.

An end.

And I do not know how I feel about it, this end.

But it does not matter.

The seals may be broken. Are breaking.

But with him, I am not.

In him, I am made whole.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from The Glitch Mob's lovely song of the same name.


End file.
